


Convergence

by Paper_Crane_Song



Series: Latency [2]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s02e08 The Communicator, Episode: s02e09 Singularity, Friendship, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:54:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23654197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paper_Crane_Song/pseuds/Paper_Crane_Song
Summary: Takes place directly afterThe Communicatorand looks at the days leading up toSingularity. Where does Malcolm’s post-trauma reaction end, and the behaviour-altering effects of the singularity begin?
Relationships: Jonathan Archer & Malcolm Reed, Malcolm Reed & Charles "Trip" Tucker III
Series: Latency [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1672780
Comments: 29
Kudos: 44
Collections: Reed's Armory Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In _Singularity_ , before Enterprise has even charted a course towards the trinary star system, T’Pol states that Malcolm has developed a new security protocol. This made me wonder if the protocol, with its analysis of Enterprise’s encounters with hostile species going back months, is Malcolm’s way of attempting to deal with what happened to him in _The Communicator_. 
> 
> This story follows on from _Shame_. I’d love to hear your thoughts and thanks for reading.

** The first night  **

The noose is choking him, and he scrabbles at his neck but he can’t find purchase on the rope, and so with a Herculean effort he lurches away and ends up falling hard onto the ground. 

The impact serves to jolt him half awake but he has yet to claw himself fully from the dream, and in the darkness he thinks he is back in the prison cell. He throws himself at the bars, where there is air, and the possibility of light, but he crashes into a bulkhead and then he realises where he is. 

He hits the lights and stands in the middle of his quarters, chest heaving. 

The disorientation and distress of the dream cling to him for the rest of the night like a shroud.

* * *

In the morning he bumps into Trip on his way to the mess hall. 

“So,” Trip says, “glad to be back?”

“You have no idea,” he says fervently. “How’s the hand?”

“Practically normal.” Trip holds his hand up. “See?”

“That reminds me. When you have a moment I’d like to go over your findings from that Suliban ship, see if we can’t utilise their cloaking technology for Enterprise.”

“Yeah, well good luck with that; we barely got the cloak working the first time around. How it’ll intergrate with ship’s systems is anyone’s guess.” They enter the mess hall together and the sheer number of people gives him pause. Trip doesn’t seem to notice though. 

They take their trays and find an empty table in the centre of the room.

“So you okay yesterday?” Trip says, unfolding his napkin, “you seemed kind of rattled.”

“Just tired, that’s all. The last couple of days were somewhat trying.”

“I’ll bet. Good thing we arrived when we did. It looked like things were getting pretty hairy.”

“Yes.” He hesitates. He wants to tell Trip that he saved their lives, that he did for them what he himself could not. That the Captain could not. But a crowded mess hall is no place for such weighty sentiment. Instead he watches as Trip makes a start on his sausages. He is very aware of the collar of his uniform pressing against his throat, a sensation that he cannot help but associate with the noose.

A burst of laughter from somewhere behind him and it grates on his already raw nerves. Suddenly it is all too much, these bright lights, these people, the movement all around him. 

“If you’ll excuse me, Commander,” he says, getting up, “I just remembered I have a report to finish before I’m due on the bridge.” It is not entirely a lie. He completed the report from the first part of the mission in the early hours when he couldn’t get back to sleep. For a while, he was able to immerse himself fully in the analysis of the tactical situation and his commentary of the political rally. But the second report, the one dealing with the loss of the communicator, eludes him. 

Trip looks up at him in bemusement. “Okay.” There is a hint of question about it. 

“I still want to hear about that Suliban ship,” he says, and Trip relaxes a little.

“Sure. I’ll come find you later.”


	2. Chapter 2

T’Pol acknowledges his arrival with a slight incline of her head from her position in the Captain’s chair. He relieves the crewman at the tactical station and briefs himself on Enterprise’s status. Bridge protocol is routine and he takes solace in its familiarity. 

After a while he is summoned to the Captain’s ready room. 

“Lieutenant,” the Captain greets him warmly, gesturing for him to take a seat. “I read your report. I’m glad you got the chance to write it after all.”

He allows himself a small smile. “As am I, sir.”

“I was impressed by how much you were able to recall of Chancellor Kultarey’s speech.”

“It wasn’t difficult, sir. A fine speech should always be memorable.” He clears his throat. “Captain, about that other report - “

“I’ve already sent it.” The Captain nods towards his console. “Something told me you might not represent yourself fairly. Also it falls to me as Captain to give Starfleet an explanation for our...“ he breaks off then to search for the appropriate term, “- cultural intervention.” 

“Yes sir.” He feels oddly disappointed.

The Captain frowns. “Something wrong, Lieutenant?”

“I did have a number of recommendations to prevent something like this from happening again, should we find ourselves in a similar situation.”

“By all means, put them in a report. I’d like to read it.” The Captain pauses then, as if trying to soften a blow. “But no system is full-proof, Malcolm. People aren’t perfect.”

_Well_ _they bloody well should be,_ he thinks to himself, and he clamps down on that thought. 

The Captain leans back in his chair and studies him. “You look like you didn’t get much sleep last night.” 

He hesitates. He is unsure in what capacity the Captain is asking this. Perhaps the Captain assumes that the enforced camaraderie during their imprisonment will continue now they are back on Enterprise. But he cannot forget the chain of command so easily. It is a perpetual source of amazement to him how Trip is able to navigate these complexities in his own friendship with the Captain with such ease. 

To test the waters he says, “It took a while adjusting to being back in my own quarters again.”

The Captain smiles. “I know the feeling.” But despite his words the Captain appears well-rested, with no hint of the nightmare about him. 

And why should he? The Captain has every reason to feel satisfied with his conduct on the planet; he acted honourably, more concerned for his crewman’s welfare than for his own.  _He’s my tactical officer. You don’t have to kill him._

He on the other hand was able to make no such attempt to contribute positively to their situation. He was a passive participant at best; his greatest achievement was in managing not to embarrass himself.

But with a sinking feeling, he recollects that even this small source of pride is marred by what happened in the shuttlepod on the way back to Enterprise.

So on reflection, it is entirely fitting that he should have nightmares, and the Captain should not. He deserves them; they are his penance. 

The Captain is still watching him and when he speaks his tone is kind, compassionate, delicate. 

“Why don’t you take a day. We’re en-route to a blue giant cluster, T’Pol says there’s no one in the neighbourhood - “

“That’s not necessary Captain,” he says, too quickly, too desperately.

“All right.” The Captain holds up his hands to placate him and he feels the colour rush to his face. “But if you need to talk - “

“Yes sir,” he says, willing this conversation to end. He doesn’t mean to interrupt, but he wants nothing more than to escape back to his post on the bridge. 

The Captain takes pity on him. “Dismissed.” 

The rest of the day passes without incident, though a river of shame runs underneath it all, staining everything. 


	3. Chapter 3

** The next day **

“We’re approaching the blue giant cluster,” T’Pol says. 

“On screen.”

The view screen reveals a decidedly yellow-looking star. 

Archer frowns. “Are you sure we’re in the right place?”

T’Pol is unfazed. “It appears that the ship’s sensors are unable to compensate for the star’s luminosity. Adjusting visual parameters.”

The star turns a reassuring shade of blue. 

“Now that’s more like it,” Travis says, smiling broadly. 

“You are forgetting, Ensign, that it is the temperature of the star in relation to its magnitude, not its visual appearance, that defines a star’s status as a blue giant. The star cluster humans refer to as _Pleiades_ , for example, consists of....”

Malcolm tunes T’Pol out and performs another sensor sweep, scanning the surrounding area for ships. He hopes they won’t be staying long in this region of space; the phrase ‘sitting duck’ springs to mind. Idly he uses the computer to calculate the length of time it would take for a ship detected on long-range sensors to reach them.

His calculations bring him up short.

“Lieutenant?”

He looks up into the face of Captain Archer and realises that he has inadvertently worried the Captain by all the unnecessary activity at his station.

“Just running some scans, sir. All quiet.”

“Glad to hear it.” He has the distinct impression the Captain is humouring him. 

Before the Captain can turn away he adds quickly, “Sir, unless I’m needed on the bridge I’d like to go down to the Armoury; I’ve got some simulations for improving ship’s efficiency that I believe would be worth trying.” 

“Be my guest.”

* * *

In the Armoury he runs the calculations again, this time allowing for varying warp speeds. The results are disturbing. Should a vessel seek to engage them at high warp, Enterprise would barely have enough time to defend herself. Not to mention if the vessel was cloaked.

Perhaps he can get Trip and his team to work on boosting the range and sensitivity of Enterprise’s sensors. But this is only one side of the coin. It seems to him that the flip side should be to improve the combat readiness of the ship. 

With that in mind, he says, “Computer, display all log entries pertaining to Enterprise’s encounters with other species.” He marks the encounters as _non-hostile_ and _hostile_ , and he gets a sick, crawling feeling as the list of hostile encounters grows. 

He reads through each incident one by one. Some are etched into his memory, like the Mazarites’ attack:

_“Would the phase cannons be more effective?”  
_

_“Undoubtedly, but we can't fire them at warp”_

_The Captain’s incredulous reply - “What do you mean, we can't fire them at warp?”  
_

_“Particle discharge, sir. It would destabilise our warp field and most likely blow out both our nacelles.” Flustered, he offers an excuse, “I've been working on the problem, but I haven't quite - “  
_

_The Captain cuts him off._ _“Drop to impulse. Deploy the aft cannon.”_

After that particular incident he’d devoted all his off-duty hours to focusing on the phase cannons, declining social invitations, working into the night for days on end until he and his team finally found a solution. He should have dedicated himself to the problem from the start instead of treating it as an interesting project to be tinkered with when he was in the Armoury. That he’d been increasingly choosing to spend his down-time with the crew, attending movie night and other such gatherings, was inexcusable when the ship’s security - and by extension their very lives - was at stake. Never mind that nearly a year into their mission he was more weary than he’d care to admit; the phase cannons still should have taken precedence. He was only glad his father wasn’t there to witness this dereliction of duty. 

Later, he’d let Trip talk him into going to Risa on shore-leave, because he was exhausted, and because, if truth be told, he missed his friend.  And gradually he’d grown complacent again.

First, he’d failed to detect the presence of the Suliban ships even though the clues were there. “ _We're having trouble balancing the warp field.... It's odd. It'll be stable one moment, and then, for no reason, it'll go slightly out of alignment.“_ Instead he’d wasted a good hour trying to realign the field when he could have been making preparations for an attack.

And then Enterprise had been boarded, and there was nothing he could do to stop them, a fact that T’Pol had painfully reminded him of when she’d superseded his order to send his security teams to the docking ports. He had atoned for it in some degree by the successful retrieval of the device from Daniel’s quarters, and he remembered Trip’s appalled expression afterwards as he’d accompanied him to sickbay, had wanted to reassure Trip that it was all part of his job, but he couldn’t speak because the Suliban had broken his jaw. 

Klingons, Ferengi, Romulans, Andorians... 

Each encounter shows just how truly helpless Enterprise is,

_“On your feet”_

_“He’s my tactical officer, you don’t need to kill him”_

and each one is testament to his failure.


	4. Chapter 4

When Trip visits the Armoury, he’s always a little unnerved by how quiet the place is. In Engineering there’s usually sparks flying, people hollering, a jubilant chaos with him at the centre of it. 

But down here, it’s a different story. Crewmen converse in undertones, crossing spaces to talk to each other rather than shouting from across the room. There is work going on but it’s controlled and orderly. He feels like a cowboy from one of those old Westerns, where the hero sets foot through the saloon doors and the regulars stop drinking and whip their heads round to stare. Malcolm’s guys are more well-bred than that, but still, he can sense all eyes on him as heads over towards Malcolm, the awareness that he’s in their territory now. 

Ordinarily he’d greet his friend from a fair distance away, but out of deference to Armoury culture he waits until he gets close before saying hi. 

Malcolm nearly jumps out of his skin, slamming backwards into the console. 

“Whoa!” Trip says, holding his hands up, “easy, didn’t mean to scare ya.”

“What the bloody hell were you thinking, sneaking up on me like that?” Malcolm is flushed, furious, his voice unnaturally loud in the otherwise silent room, and Trip has to resist the temptation to tell him to keep his voice down. “What if I’d been handling a weapon?”

“But you weren’t,” Trip says, feeling his own blood boil in response to Malcolm’s anger, “and anyway, I wasn’t sneaking.” 

The two men stand there, glaring at each other, a stand-off, and it is Malcolm who backs down with a heavy sigh. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Commander. I’ve been working on this new security protocol since this morning; I doubt I’d notice if a group of Klingons waltzed through here.” He turns back to the terminal, and without looking says, “Can I help you with something?” 

But Trip isn’t prepared to let it go that quickly. Now that his ire is cooling, he notices that Malcolm is looking less professional than usual, more frazzled, the top button of his collar undone. His appearance reminds Trip of when they’d worked through the night installing the phase cannons so the boys at Jupiter station wouldn’t have to. But that time Malcolm had a fire about him, was exhilarated despite the exhaustion. Now he just seems defeated.

The cloak analysis from the Suliban ship, his main reason for coming down here, can wait. He’s more concerned with what’s got Malcolm so riled up. So he puts the padd to one side and says, “A new security protocol?” 

Malcolm frowns at the console and folds his arms. “To improve the combat readiness of the ship. The Captain’s unlikely to approve my proposal unless I have hard evidence that there’s even a problem in the first place. So I’ve been reviewing our encounters with hostile species.” He shakes his head, scrolling through the pages of text. “It makes for grim reading.”

Trip watches his friend for a moment, hesitant. He has a lot of affection for Malcolm, respects how quietly capable he is, gets a real kick out of his sardonic sense of humour. When Malcolm’s in the right mood he’s a blast to be around. But when Malcolm’s like this, obsessive, serious, losing all perspective, Trip’s never quite sure how to handle him. In the past he’s tried teasing Malcolm out of it, but he’s realised over time that Malcolm is a sensitive soul; making fun of him only winds up with the two of them shouting at each other. Telling him to take a break won’t help either; Malcolm would only see it as a criticism. 

So he sighs inwardly, bids farewell to the next four or five hours of his life and says, “Want some help?”

Malcolm looks at him, and his expression, a mixture of surprise and pleasure, kind of makes it worth it.


	5. Chapter 5

** Malcolm **

It’s late now; the Armoury is dark and quiet. Most of the crewmen have gone off-duty.

He loves the stillness of it, these simple, uncluttered structures, the absence of windows. Just cool metal, surrounding him, soothing him. 

“Why now?” Trip says next to him, shaking him from his reverie. 

“I’m sorry?”

Trip nods at the screen, where he is synthesising data from the log entries. “What made you decide to do all this now?”

His face twists. “I should’ve done _this_ a long time ago. I suppose I just didn’t want to accept the fact that so many people have it in for us; if anything we seem to be making more enemies as we go, not less.”

“We’ve made plenty of friends too,” Trip says, glancing sideways at him as he works. 

He huffs. “Yes, I’d just rather our friends were a bit more technologically advanced, or at least more inclined to share their technology with us. We could do with levelling the playing field against some of these characters.” 

“There’s always going to be someone else out there with bigger guns, Malcolm,” Trip says, turning his attention back to his console again. “You just gotta accept it.” 

The easy way that Trip says this, the reminder that even now, after all they’ve been through, Trip still doesn’t understand him, feels so much like a betrayal that it actually takes his breath away. For a moment, there is a weight in his chest, a pressure that he has to fight against, and the disappointment, the crushing loneliness of it makes his eyes sting with unexpected tears.

Trip looks up at him when he doesn’t answer, does a double-take, straightens, “hey,“ reaching for him - 

and he steps away,

“Malcolm - “

“I _know_ there's always going to be someone else out there with bigger guns,” he grinds out, “or better defences, or a faster ship, but that’s not an excuse to simply sit back and hope for the best.”

“I wasn’t saying - “

“I’m not overreacting. We have the means and capability to defend ourselves; we could have prevented at least a third of these incidents from happening if we’d been better prepared.” He is ashamed to hear his voice shaking. “We’ve been lucky so far, but pretty soon our luck is going to run out and people are going to die.” 

The words hang in the air, too loud and too much. Trip stares at him. 

His face is hot. He turns away and tries to breathe slowly, willing himself to calm down. 

“No one thinks you’re overreacting,” Trip says at last. 

“The Captain does,” he says before he can stop himself.

Trip lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Malcolm, it’s not... Look. It’s like my dad always said. When you’re a hammer, everything looks like a nail.” 

“I beg your pardon?”

Trip shifts on his feet. “I’m just saying, you’re the weapons expert. Your go-to solution will always be a tactical one, just as Hoshi’s will be to make contact, or T’Pol’s to use logic. It’s down to the Captain to make the final call.” 

_Oh yes, and that worked so well the other day when my head was in a noose,_ he almost says, but he bites his tongue. He has no desire to criticise the Captain to another officer, much less one who is the Captain’s particular friend.

“For what it’s worth, I think your protocol makes sense, and I know the Captain will think so too when you show it to him.”

But he isn’t so sure. Something has shifted in the way he thinks about the Captain, and it scares him because it means that he no longer trusts the Captain’s judgement, no longer trusts that the Captain is capable of keeping them safe.

_ “We’re doing the right thing, Malcolm.”  _

_“On your feet.”_

How could them dying be the right thing? How could their deaths make any less of an impact on that culture than spouting rubbish about super soldiers and experimental fighter jets? 

But he is afraid that his own cowardice invalidates him from asking that question. He cannot separate his fear from an objective analysis of the situation.  _“I’m not afraid, sir.”_ Except, he had been. He’d been so afraid. And the Captain knew that. 

“You sure you’re okay?” Trip says, and he blinks. He is back in the Armoury again, surrounded by a solid arsenal of torpedos and weaponry, and thanks to the new protocols, he’s about to make them even deadlier. 

So he sucks in a breath. “I’m fine. Let’s get on with it, shall we?” 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter incorporates scenes from episodes _The Communicator_ and _Singularity_

_The Captain throws himself into the Suliban shuttle, “Let’s go!”, the sound of gunfire following him, and Trip closes the hatch just in time._

_Malcolm braces himself as they take off. The launch is a little bumpy, and the ship is rather cramped, but he’s just glad the aforementioned rescue party made an appearance after all, even if they are cutting it a little fine._

_“The shuttlepod's right where you left it, sir,” Travis says. “We'll be there in two minutes.” A reminder that they’re not out of danger just yet. God forbid Travis crashes this thing before they can get to the shuttle. If they’re recaptured -_

_He deliberately banishes that thought from his mind, but at the same time he knows that he’ll only be able to truly relax when he’s in a Starfleet shuttlepod, on the way back to Enterprise._

_The Captain is patting himself down, and just as Trip says, “Captain?”, he spies something metallic on the floor. He picks it up, a twinkle in his eye._

_“Sir, looking for this?”_

_He hands the scanner to the Captain, and the Captain takes it with a smile and then he morphs into Gosis._

_He recoils with a grunt, looks to the others for help, but one by one - T’Pol, Trip, Travis - they morph into Pell, Temec and the soldier who led him out to be executed._

_He presses himself into the wall, and he can’t say anything, can only make inarticulate groans. The men come towards him and he raises his hands to push them away, kicks out as they grab him -_

He is still kicking as he wakes, and for a moment he’s in a strange half world where he’s both in the dream and in his quarters, and he can hear himself moaning as he manages to wrench himself out of his bunk, stumbling across the room and making straight for the bathroom.

That’s the night over for him. He can’t face staying where he is, and these days going to the messhall feels like the emotional equivalent of being flayed, so, as has become the norm for him, he retreats to the Armoury. The crewmen there stand to attention, “As you were,” and he sets to work on the torpedo target discriminators. The calculations help settle him, and for a while he is able to lose himself.

The dreams are getting worse. Although he knows what inspired this particular dream; Trip had ribbed him about allocating Risa to the “hostile” list, but it was more the existence of shapeshifters, the potential threat they posed to ship’s security, which bothered him. If an alien could alter their appearance at will, then what was to stop it from impersonating one of the crew? The senior staff? The Captain?

“Come on,” Trip had said. “I’d know if the Captain got replaced by a shapeshifter.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Of course. It’s not like an alien would be able to carry on a conversation about water polo. Besides, Porthos would know something was up, he’d bark.”

“Right. I’m sure Starfleet Command will be thrilled to hear that our plan for detecting shapeshifters relies on the Captain’s pet dog.”

The dreams are getting worse, and yet he is coming to dread the waking hours also. He can’t shake the feeling that they are running out of time, that this is the calm before the storm, and he’s the only one who knows it. And yet the more hours he spends working on the protocol, the more he realises that it is fractal in nature, spiralling off into never-ending itinerations that he cannot possibly foresee.

He sits at his post, turning the particular problem of shapeshifters over in his mind, as the rest of the crew wax lyrical about blue giant clusters and spatial anomalies. He finds their enthusiasm wearing. And now they’re apparently on their way to a trinary star system, although he cannot bring himself to care very much.

Which is strange, because there had been a time, not so very long ago, when he would have considered surveying a black hole to be an adventure. After all, he joined Starfleet as an explorer, keeps a record of how many planets he’s set foot on. And now none of that seems to matter.

He can hear the Captain and Trip’s conversation even though he’s trying not to eavesdrop. They’re just so loud.

“It's uncomfortable. When I lean back I feel like I'm about to slide out of it. I have to sort of perch on the edge.”

“I always thought it was the best seat in the house.”

He frowns. The Captain should be taking advantage of this lull to run drills and training exercises, not faffing about with a bloody chair. He jiggles his knee impatiently and catches T’Pol’s keen eyes watching, so he wills himself to keep still. Yet he is too keyed up to just sit here; there’s a list of jobs as long as his arm that needs doing in the Armoury. Not to mention the security protocol, which he’s so close to finishing.

And then maybe, just maybe, when he knows that Enterprise is better protected, he can afford to breathe a little easier.

* * *

The next morning, the Captain isn’t at the senior staff briefing. Rumour has it that he’s trying to write the preface of a book about his father. 

T’Pol says, “Are there any other matters to bring to the Captain’s attention?”

He speaks up. “I have a new security protocol I’d like to talk to the Captain about, when he’s at leisure.”

“I’ll mention it to him.”

“Finally finished it, huh?” Trip says.

He nods. “Last night.” Although technically, this morning, just the wrong side of early. And yet he isn’t tired. His mind is brimming with ideas.

Later, he is in the Armoury supervising work on the torpedoes.

“Keep those target discriminators aligned. We don't want a torpedo mistaking one of our own nacelles for an enemy vessel.” He kneels down to access the controls. 

A voice behind him, and he starts in surprise.  


“You asked to see me, Malcolm?”

He stands quickly, slightly appalled that his request might have been interpreted as a summons. “I would have come to you, Captain.”

The Captain smiles to show that he is only teasing. “It's no problem. What's on your mind?”

He hesitates. In truth, he’d rather have this discussion in the quiet of the Captain’s ready room, not here, in the hustle and bustle of a torpedo recalibration. He has no choice but to make the best of it though, so he retrieves his padd.

“I've been reviewing our encounters with hostile species. The crew's response has been admirable, but I feel we can do better, sir.” This is his polite way of saying that the crew’s response has in fact been abysmal, and quite frankly he’s surprised they’ve managed to make it this far. 

The Captain eyes him with something close to trepidation. “And you have a proposal?”

Actually, he has several proposals, but he decides to start with the one that makes the most sense from the Captain’s point of view.

“I've been thinking about a ship wide emergency alert. Something a bit more comprehensive than battle stations.”

The Captain’s eyes narrow, his scepticism obvious.

He soldiers on. “We're taking far too long to react to potential threats. With a single order from you, or an impact to the hull, the plating could be polarised, weapons brought online, critical systems secured - “

“I appreciate your concern, Malcolm, but this isn't a warship.”

The Captain’s response is predictable and infuriating, and he can’t quite keep the sarcasm from his voice. “That's obvious, sir.”

He taps the padd to access the relevant data and then hands it to the Captain.

“During our last run-in with the Suliban we were unprepared for their boarding parties. When the Mazarites attacked they disabled our aft sensors with their first shot. The list goes on.” And on, and on. It is literally the stuff of nightmares. But if he shows just how much it upsets him then the Captain will feel compelled to respond to his emotion instead of the data, just as Trip had the other day.

“I can see that,” the Captain says, and he feels a flash of anger, as if he’s being reprimanded for being thorough.

The Captain stands and gives him back the padd. “Run this by the senior officers, get some feedback, and we'll talk again.”

The Captain hasn’t even bothered to read all of it. Hours of work, and the conversation is over in less than a minute. It is all he can do to say, “Yes, sir,” in a civil manner.

The Captain stops halfway out the door. “And Malcolm, don't call it battle stations. Think of something less aggressive.”

Oh yes, as if the aliens will care about what it’s called when they’re in the process of destroying Enterprise. Never mind that there’s a whole array of problems to work out - how to do a controlled emergency shut-down of the EPS grid without blowing up the ship, for one - but clearly the most important detail of the whole protocol is its name.  _Bloody hell._ He doesn’t dignify the suggestion with a response.

The Captain leaves, and he stands there fuming, clenching the padd in his hands. His team are looking at him with poorly-concealed pity, and this only stokes his anger further.

“Let’s get back to work,” he says harshly, but even the tremendous concentration needed to carry out the torpedo recalibration can’t do away with his overwhelming disappointment; not in the lukewarm reception of his protocol, but in the Captain himself.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue is taken from the episode _Singularity_

After that, things get a little... fuzzy. 

He remembers accusing T’Pol of being a shapeshifter.

_“How do I know you are the First Officer? We've encountered species that can alter their appearance. They could masquerade as any one of us.”_

He remembers criticising the Captain to her.

_“I've been trying to get him to pay closer attention to security since we left spacedock, but he's more interested in fraternising with the crew. Inviting them to breakfast, and to watch water polo. I intend to implement some long-overdue changes, and if the Captain won't approve them then I'll go directly to Starfleet Command.”_

He remembers nearly coming to blows with Trip

_“This is all a big joke to you. This isn't a bloody pleasure cruise. Without proper discipline on this ship, this mission is doomed.”_

and disrespecting the Captain to his face, on his own bridge no less.

_“It took you one minute and fifteen seconds to reach your post. I'd expect more of our Commanding Officer given that the crew just might follow his example.”_

And he remembers deciding to implement the new security protocols himself, tampering with key systems, without waiting for the Captain’s approval. 

When the culprit for all the odd behaviour is revealed to be radiation from the trinary star system, he experiences a rush of gratitude, in spite of his embarrassment. The symptoms that Phlox reels off - paranoia, obsession, anger, anxiety - explain much of how he’s been feeling lately.  


And yet there’s doubt mingled in there too. The things he recalls saying under the influence of the radiation still seem rational to him even now; it was as if the singularity had merely removed his inhibitions, allowing him to say what he truly thought. 

He’s even more confused when he’s summoned to theCaptain’s ready room; he expects some form of reprimand for implementing the security protocols, and instead he is commended for them. 

“They brought the weapons online right when we needed them,” the Captain says, and he feels a surge of pride. “If you have no objection - “ 

He stares at the Captain, tense, hoping very much indeed that the Captain will say what he thinks he’s going to say - 

“I’d like to make it standard procedure.” 

He can barely contain his relief. He shifts on his feet, lets out the breath he’s been holding. “No objection sir.” 

The Captain grins at his reaction, claps him on the shoulder as he heads for the door. 

Still, he thinks, as he follows the Captain onto the bridge, he can’t help but feel ever so slightly aggrieved that it took the near demise of Enterprise to make the Captain see sense. 

But perhaps this will be the turning point now. The Captain will realise just how important ship’s security is, and will give it the proper attention it deserves. 

And all will be well. 


End file.
